


Beyond Reason, Beyond Hope

by invisible_doorknob



Category: Jumper (2008)
Genre: Gen, OFC - Freeform, Original Female Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-22 15:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6085809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisible_doorknob/pseuds/invisible_doorknob
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffin gets himself in trouble.  Somebody else gets him out.  Which just means more trouble...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from _Mirror Dance_ by Lois McMaster Bujold.

He would never have admitted it to that wanker David, but Griffin actually does have a library on his safe list too. Nothing as measly as David’s little provincial spot; no, he’d had the brains to pick a place that at least had plenty of quiet spaces to pop in and out of, and a university library has more than enough. Sure, it’s fun to blow minds by appearing and disappearing in full view of whoever happens to be around, but there are times when a bloke needs discretion. In fact, he’s kept it almost as secret as his lair in the desert. 

Unfortunately, it looks like he hasn’t been quite discreet enough. 

The light in his eyes is almost the worst part; he can _feel_ it burning, and it turns Roland into a menacing voice coming out of the darkness behind the spotlight. But all that does is show up Roland’s addiction to old spy movies, because while Griffin may be afraid of dying on the bastard’s blade, he isn’t afraid of _Roland_. He just hates him. 

“For the last time, _tell me where to find Rice._ ” The Paladin sounds exasperated, and Griffin smirks a bloody-lipped smile in his direction. 

“For the last time,” he mocks, “I don’t bloody _know_ , mate. The arsehole threw me into a pylon and ran off to play the hero and save the girl.” Actual truth, even; Griffin leaves out the part where he’d passed out in the wires and woken snug in a sleeping bag on Alcatraz Island, next to two bottles of water and a bag of take-away from someplace called Kung Food. “Told you that already.” 

A shadow moves between him and the light, and Griffin blinks in relief at the same time he braces for the blow. A hard fist smacks his face to the side, again, and he rocks with it as best he can, riding the pain like the rush of a jump. 

He tries spitting the fresh blood in Roland’s direction, but the Paladin is already out of reach, too bad. “Six times,” Griffin adds thoughtfully, squinting. “Slow night tonight? No date?” 

Roland doesn’t bite, and Griffin smirks wider. Needling the man won’t work, there is no point, but running his mouth is what Griffin _does_ , and since he’ll shortly be very dead, he might as well get in whatever he can in the time that he has. 

He’s not even sure where he is; someplace beneath the library itself in a sub-basement, probably, where nobody can hear them. There are no wires this time, no current burning through him; there is only the pain of the zip-ties cutting into his wrists where he half-dangles from a steam pipe. 

It’s only Roland, and Griffin wonders wearily why the _hell_ David hadn’t killed the bastard, but one Paladin is enough this round. Griffin had popped in behind the last row of medical journals, and he’d been halfway to the door when something had jabbed him hard in the neck. 

His flinch, his jump, hadn’t _worked._ And everything had gone fuzzy for a bit, until he’d come back to himself, head pounding, in this shithole. Whatever was in the hypodermic Roland had shoved into him has paralysed his ability to jump, and he is well and truly fucked. 

“We’ll find him,” Roland says at last. “He can’t hide forever.” 

That’s probably true, but it’s not Griffin’s problem, and as a matter of fact he’s about to not have any more problems at all, except maybe his guts slopping onto his trainers. Roland steps in front of the light again, and through the spots in his eyes Griffin can just make out the bundle of cloth he’s pulling out and unwrapping. 

Cold runs through him, because for all he knew this was coming, Griffin _doesn’t want to die._ He’s seen this happen before, and there’s no begging for mercy or even a clean death. All he can do is grit his teeth and hope he can hold back the screaming. 

Roland slides the knife out, turning it a little in his hand as if to check for a flaw in the blade. Panic flares, and Griffin tries again and again to jump, but the drug is still working and all it does is make his head hurt worse. He yanks at the ties-- _fuck, FUCK_ \--hating Roland all the more when the man smiles with pleasure at Griffin’s fear. 

“This has been a _long_ time coming, O’Connor,” he says, stepping closer and raising one finger to stroke the scar Griffin had given him. “Only God should--” 

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it before, _boring._ ” Griffin bares his teeth and wonders if he can kick Roland in the balls while the knife is going in. “Guess what, fucker, he’s not--” 

Bright light bursts overhead, and both of them flinch. The darkness vanishes, revealing a dusty utility room thick with pipes and equipment, and lit by bare fluorescent tubes. 

Roland whirls, cursing, but then freezes, his back to Griffin and unfortunately just out of range of Griffin’s feet. Griffin blinks furiously at the light and leans to one side, trying to see around him. 

The figure standing in the doorway across the room is a woman, and a vaguely familiar one at that. One of the librarians, in fact; Griffin’s seen her working at the reference desk. 

He opens his mouth to shout a warning, because the Paladin will kill her as quickly as he’ll kill Griffin, but before he can speak he hears the sharp click of a revolver cocking. “Put the knife down, please,” the woman says pleasantly, her accent as American as Roland’s own, and when he squints Griffin can see she has both hands holding a gun steady, barrel pointed at the Paladin. 

_Where the fuck did she get a gun?_

Roland doesn’t move. “You’re making a mistake,” he says coldly. “I have the authority to--” 

“Mister, all I see is what looks like a torture chamber,” the librarian says, her voice hardening. “Put down the knife. Ah--” She lifts the revolver higher, aiming at Roland as his grip tightens. “Are you really willing to bet your life on my aim?” 

Griffin sees Roland’s shoulders stiffen. _He’s seriously wondering if he can kill me before she shoots._ The stupid thing is, he probably _can_ , and Griffin rolls onto his toes, getting ready to dodge and hoping that the librarian doesn’t miss and hit _him_ instead. 

“You’ll still be dead,” the woman says. “ _Drop_ it.” 

Griffin can actually hear the low growl that rumbles out of Roland, and he has to choke back a bit of hysterical laughter when Roland slowly bends to place the knife on the floor. The woman nods. 

“Kick it over here,” she says, and the knife spins across the concrete, sliding past her and halfway out the open door. The librarian ignores it, gesturing with the gun. “Now, the cage, please.” 

It’s a wire enclosure in one corner of the room, protecting some kind of power equipment. Roland walks slowly over to it, and the librarian fishes a set of keys out of her pocket and tosses them to him, instructing him quietly on which one to use. Griffin watches with fascination as Roland is forced to shut himself inside the cage; his face is set in a cold mask and his eyes are incandescent with rage, but there’s nothing he can _do_ , and Griffin wants to dance in place and fucking _sing_ with the joy of it. He manages not to, though, because the last thing he needs is Roland losing his temper and doing something that might break him back out again; Griffin’s pretty sure he’s got enough gadgets on him to get himself loose if he tries. 

The librarian comes close enough to turn the key in the lock and pull it free. “Don’t touch anything in there,” she tells Roland. “An undergrad fried himself a few years ago messing with it.” 

Roland just folds his arms and glares. The woman uncocks the gun and comes over to Griffin, looking up at his scraped wrists. “You okay?” 

“What th’hell do you _think_?” he manages, his mouth suddenly dry with a rush of relief, though his head is hurting worse than ever. 

“Touché,” she says, lips twisting. She’s about his height and not much older than him, a few years maybe, with brown hair in a braid and actual wire-rim glasses. Her skin’s as pale as his own, and she’s wearing a _cardigan_ , like it’s a librarian rule or something. “Hold on a sec.” 

“Not much else I can do,” Griffin retorts, but she’s already poking through the room’s assorted junk, and a half-minute later she comes back with a sturdy crate to step on. She produces a box-cutter from her cardigan pocket, slipping the gun into it so she can reach up and cut through the zip-ties. 

This puts Griffin’s face right at tit-level, and fuck if she doesn’t smell nice too--kind of like a birthday cake--but since she’s rescuing him Griffin _tries_ to be a gentleman, and turns his head to glare at Roland. The Paladin hasn’t moved, still glowering, and it’s too bad, because it’d be really handy if he electrocuted himself, wouldn’t it? 

Then the ties give way and Griffin staggers as his hands drop. The librarian hops off the box and grabs him, and he lets one aching arm fall around her shoulders because otherwise he’s going to be on the floor, which would be bad. 

“Come on,” she says, and hauls him towards the door. It takes him a few steps to find his balance, but by the time they get there he’s walking mostly on his own. 

“‘Alf a mo,” he says, and lets go to bend painfully down for the knife. Behind him he hears Roland shift, and the librarian glances back. 

“I’ll send Security down for you in a bit,” she tells Roland. “Just sit tight.” 

Griffin manages to straighten up again without passing out, and grins over his shoulder at the Paladin. “Think I’ll drop this in the Med,” he says, and Roland finally breaks, slamming one fist into the mesh of the cage. It shakes, but nothing gives way, and Griffin flips him a pair of chubbies as the librarian guides him out the door. 

She hustles him down the hallway, one arm around his waist since he still isn’t steady on his feet. “Can’t we go back and shoot him?” Griffin complains, blinking again as his vision starts to blur. His head is gonna _explode._

Her laugh is shaky as she stops in front of a set of lift doors and punches the call button. “Tempting, but it’s not loaded.” 

Griffin gapes at her. “Wha’?” 

She pats her cardigan pocket. “It’s been sitting in a drawer behind the ref desk since long before I got here, nobody remembers where it came from. Just as well, I doubt I could hit the broad side of a barn.” 

The lift chimes and the doors open, and they stumble inside. Griffin’s still trying to process the fact that she bluffed a Paladin _and won_ when the pain in his head blacks out the light, and him. 


	2. Chapter 2

Waking up reminds him of a hangover, but not _too_ much. Griffin’s head hurts, but nowhere near as bad as before, and when he pries open his eyes a crack the light is mercifully dim. 

He’s almost afraid to try to jump, so for the moment he just lies still and relaxed, pretending to still be asleep while he does a quick reccy through his eyelashes. 

He’s never seen the little room before; it’s got a couple of armchairs, one of which the librarian is sitting in--reading, of course, what else would a librarian do--and it smells like stale coffee. No windows that he can see. He’s lying on something soft, a sofa, with something warm draped over him. 

Griffin wonders how long he’s been out. His mouth is as dry as the Gobi, and his stomach is trying to devour his spine, and he has to assume Roland’s got loose, which means that he and the librarian are both in danger. And while normally he doesn’t give a flying fuck about bystanders, innocent or otherwise, she _did_ save his life. 

_And_ he has to piss. Bad. 

He opens his eyes all the way and strains his ears, but it seems like they’re alone. Sitting up slowly, Griffin groans; _everything_ hurts, feels like. The librarian looks up from her book as he pushes away the coat covering him, and her brows go up. 

“Hey there. How are you feeling?” 

“Like shite.” Griffin shoves his hair out of his face, grimacing at the scrapes on his wrist. “Where’s Roland?” 

“I assume you mean the guy with the knife? No idea.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. 

Griffin tenses. “We need to get out of here.” 

The librarian cocks her head. “Relax. I called Security on him; apparently he was out of the cage by the time they got to him, but the utility room is staff only so they escorted him out.” 

“You think that’s going to stop him?” The knife is sitting on the scratched low table in front of the sofa, and Griffin reaches for it. The thing is repulsive but a weapon is a weapon. “He’s probably back in the building by now.” 

“I doubt it.” She grins at him. “When I called Security I gave them a description of you leaving the library at a run. What’s the one place you don’t look for something?” 

“Huh.” Griffin isn’t going to admit to being impressed, but it _was_ clever. Sort of. “What’s your name, anyway?” 

“Zan. Pre-med, neuroscience.” At his frown, she squints at him. “Aren’t you a student?” 

“Fuck, no.” He snorts. “What’s a Yank doing in _Birmingham?_ And what kind of name is that?” 

“Going to school,” Zan says with exaggerated patience. “And it’s short for Alexandria. Go ahead, make the obvious joke, I’ll wait.” 

Since he has no clue what she’s talking about, Griffin just stares at her. Zan rolls her eyes. “Going to tell me why you were being menaced by a goon with a pig-sticker?” 

“Nah. Cheers though.” He pushes to his feet, and then sits down abruptly when the room starts spinning. “ _Motherfucker_.” 

Zan’s snicker is almost kind, and as he drops his head into his hands Griffin hears her stand up. There’s a muffled thump, and then something cold touches his fingers. “Here.” 

It’s a bottle of water, nicely chilled, and Griffin twists it open to suck half of it down in a few gulps, overstrained bladder notwithstanding. Warm fingers fold over his wrist, tightening when he goes to pull away, and Zan makes a humming sound. 

“Your pulse is good. Guess I don’t need to call for an ambulance after all.” 

Griffin opens his eyes and yanks his arm free, ignoring the burn of the scrapes on his wrist. “If you’re a med student, why d’you work in the library?” 

Zan laughs again. “Gotta make rent somehow. Fortunately I’m not in a hurry.” 

She crouches in front of him, eye to eye, and puts a gentle hand under his jaw as she peers at his face. It’s _weird_. Nobody touches him unless he wants them to, and those are very limited and _specific_ circumstances, thank you very much, but some old reflex holds him in place, as if she really is his doctor or something. It’s making him nervous, so he looks her over in turn. 

Yeah, a couple years older, and nicely fleshed out too, with a pair to be proud of even if she’s not showing ‘em off; he gets the feeling that she’s carrying some muscle too, though. She’s not pretty, really, just pleasantly ordinary, and her eyes are brown behind the lenses. And she still smells like birthday cake. 

“Your pupils are back to normal too,” she says, satisfied. “Drink some more water.” 

Griffin does because he’s still thirsty, not because she tells him to. “‘S there a toilet? ‘Cause I have to take a piss.” 

Zan stands up and points behind him. “Turn left, two doors down.” 

Griffin slides off the sofa more carefully this time. The room wavers, then settles down, and he heads for the door, moving gingerly. 

The corridor is dim too, with the half-light that tells him the library’s closed. He pads down to the second door and relieves his aching bladder, then goes to splash water on his sticky face. The man in the mirror is paler than usual, hair out of control, but he barely notices. 

_I could jump right now. Probably. I SHOULD jump._

It’s the perfect venue, he’d disappear from Zan’s life in the blink of an eye and she’d never know where he’d gone. He’d done it hundreds of times and never cared a whit. 

But the small scrap that was all that was left of his conscience won’t shut up. _Roland has got to know who she is by now,_ it says. _It doesn’t matter if she never sees you again. He’ll take her to pieces the minute she sets foot outside this place._

And why should he care--he’s never bothered before, even when people had died, because it’s just him against the Paladins and no one’s given a shit what happened to him, not since his parents died. 

But-- 

_I owe her._ _That’s all._ She’d saved him from Roland’s knife, and that means he can’t just leave and let Roland shred her slowly for information she won’t even have. _Life for life._

He sighs, finishes off the water, and heads back out. He really wants to jump, just to see if he _can_ , because being stuck is fucking _terrifying,_ but if the Paladins are monitoring the building they’ll be able to pick it up and then they’ll be all over the place. 

Griffin keeps the knife ready as he skulks down the hall, just in case. His head is feeling better, and it lets him concentrate on the questions that are starting to pop up. Like, why had a reference librarian-slash-grad student found a gun and come to rescue him, instead of just calling Security? How’d she even know he _needed_ rescuing? 

Griffin hasn’t survived this long by being stupid. He hefts the knife in his hand and considers his options as he pulls open the lounge’s door. He can’t jump in right behind her, but if she doesn’t suspect him-- 

“I was starting to wonder if you were coming back,” Zan says absently, then raises her eyes from her book. “Just so you know, you can’t get out of the building without a keycard, unless you want to set off the alarms.” 

“Mm.” Griffin lets the knife dangle, casual-like, and wanders closer. 

Zan closes the book. “By the way, what’s your--” 

She yelps as Griffin grabs her arm and hauls her up out of the chair, swinging neatly around behind her and shoving the blade up under her chin. “How’d you know?” he snaps in her ear, other hand tight on her wrist, twisting it up against her spine. “How’d you know where to find me?” 

“Gah.” Zan’s free hand pulls at the arm wrapped around her neck, but she doesn’t struggle. “Hey! Will you _relax?_ ” 

“Answer the fucking question.” He can see the pulse in her throat, running fast even if she sounds more annoyed than scared. “Or I’ll slit your throat right here.” 

“You wouldn’t do that,” Zan says, and he wants to snarl at her confidence. Instead he presses the knife a little deeper, right on the edge of slicing into her skin. 

“You sure about that? Talk.” 

“Lunatic,” she mutters. “Look, I was shelving journals, okay? And you came out from behind one of the shelves. Your nemesis was right behind you, and I saw him shoot something at you, then drag you away. It happened really fast.” 

She swallows, he can feel the movement of her throat. 

“He was gone before I could get my mouth moving, so I ran back to the desk to call Security, but nobody was picking up down there. Slackers,” she adds sourly. “I swear, they take a tea break every half hour.” 

Griffin almost snorts at the commentary, and tightens his grip. “Keep going.” 

“What, you can’t guess? I grabbed the gun out of the bottom drawer and ran down to the steam tunnels, playing a hunch, ‘cause if he’d taken you out of the building at ground level I knew I’d never find him. And there you were.” 

It’s weak and stupid, and therefore probably true; Griffin has heard--and spun--enough lies to know that most are better stories than that. He lifts the knife away slowly, letting her wrist go and stepping back. 

Zan rubs her throat and then her arm, turning to eye him warily before bending to pick up the book from where it had landed on the floor. “Your turn,” she says, and he has to wonder why the fuck she isn’t _afraid_ of him. “What’s your name?” 

He almost doesn’t say, just to piss her off, but that seems a little petty even for him, so he flips the knife and catches it again, and shrugs. “Griffin.” 

She smiles again, wry. “Nice to meet you. So to speak.” She cocks her head, regarding him with that uncomfortably direct stare. “So should I call the police, or anybody to help you? I mean, I’m going to have to say _something_ eventually when Security turns in a report, but--” 

“No. Don’t call.” He bites the words out, and forces himself to explain further. _Ah, fuck, I’m going to have to tell her._ It was that, or let her walk into Roland’s arms. “Won’t do any good; I guarantee you he’s got ID that can pass any test you want to put it to.” 

Zan frowns. “Why? And why was he torturing you? You know this whole thing smells really fishy.” 

“It’s complicated.” Which is stupid, but Griffin doesn’t want to stay here, because sooner or later Roland is going to figure out he was tricked, and he’ll be back, with reinforcements. “Look, I can explain, but I need to grab some food first, eh? Haven’t eaten since yesterday.” 

“Oh! Yeah, sure.” Her drawl is ridiculous, he thinks idly. Yanks, so _obvious._ “I’ve got food at home--” 

“No!” he says, too sharp, and tries to cover it by rolling his eyes. “Fucking hell, woman, inviting strange blokes with knives back to your place? Have a thing for serial killers, do you?” 

Zan puffs a laugh. “Point. Okay, we can find something local if you’d rather.” 

“Brilliant.” Griffin grabs her arm and tows her towards the door. “Let’s go, yeah? Before Roland comes back.” 

“So is that Durendal you’ve got there?” She’s still smiling, but he has no idea what she’s talking about. “Never mind. Let me stop by the desk and pick up my bag.” 

The library’s dark enough to be eerie, and Griffin keeps his ears open just in case the Paladins have tracked back, but Zan walks briskly through the shadows like she owns the place, and pulls a messenger bag out of a drawer under the reference counter. Griffin glances down, and has to grin a little at the sight of the revolver at the back of the drawer. 

“How the hell did you get me out of the lift without anyone noticing?” he asks, keeping his voice quiet. She might be able to lift him in an emergency--he’s not stupid enough to think she’s weak--but staggering through the library carrying an unconscious bloke would definitely have attracted attention. 

“Are you kidding? It’s Saturday night--the only people in here were the desperate, or the terminal nerds. Of which I am one,” Zan adds, slinging the bag across her chest. 

“Which one?” Griffin eyes one of the darkened windows and wonders how late it is. 

“Both, sometimes. The service elevator is in the staff hall; I just grabbed a rolling chair to haul you, put you in the lounge, locked the door, and told Seb he could take off early if he wanted and I’d close up. I think he left a smoking trail in the carpet when he left.” 

Griffin nods, and then the idea hits him. “Hey. Those steam tunnels--do they go anywhere?” 

Zan gives him a slow smile. “Any building on campus that’s older than twenty years, yep.” 

He has to grin back. “Then let’s go.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Griffin’s not entirely surprised that Zan knows her way around the tunnels; she natters on about LARPs and what-not, and he kind of zones out for a bit, because his head still hurts and he’s _starving,_ not to mention bloody well nervous that the Paladins are on their trail. Well, _of course_ they are, but until he tests his jump Griffin isn’t sure he can take anybody with him, at least and have them pop out alive at the other end. 

He knows himself. If it comes down to leaving Zan behind or dying with her, he’ll choose the former. But he owes her, and he intends to even things up if he can. 

Eventually they surface in a tiny building at the edge of campus, one of those mysterious structures that never has a sign telling you what it’s for. This one mostly seems to be a dump for old athletic equipment, but it does have a keycard reader and Zan lets them both out, closing the door carefully behind her. 

Five minutes and two blocks later they’re in an all-night cafe, and a few minutes after _that_ Griffin is getting on the outside of a huge pile of cheap food. It tastes like nectar after the day he’s had, and Zan sips coffee and watches him with amusement, occasionally stealing a chip. He kind of wants to snarl at her for it, but his mouth is too full. 

When the food’s gone, he sits back with a sigh. His head is hardly aching at all now, and he feels like he’s back in control. If it weren’t for Zan, he’d jump out right now, pop over to Rio or Montreal or that place in Nepal he can’t say right, and blow a kiss to all the Paladins in passing. 

It’s _really_ fucking tempting. 

“So are you going to explain now?” Zan leans her elbows on the table, looking curious and a bit sleepy. “Or should I write this all off as a weird moment and go on with my life?” 

“Wish you could,” Griffin mumbles, crumpling a serviette and shoving it into the debris of his meal. The knife is hard against his side under his jacket--awkward, but the only place to put it right now--but he’s keeping his eyes open. Just because they made it here doesn’t mean they’re _safe._

Jumpers are _never_ safe, not really. 

“Why’d you come looking for me?” Griffin asks abruptly. “Like you said, you could have written it off, some bloke passing out and getting taken away. For all you know Roland could just have been lookin’ after me.” 

Zan snorts. “Please. He _shot_ you, I saw the thing he did it with. Some kind of tube, like a dart-gun without the blowing part. If he were a legit cop or something, he would have come in the front door with a warrant. Not _lurked._ ” 

Griffin pulls another serviette out of the dispenser and fiddles with it. “Most people would just have called the coppers and walked away. Not picked up an empty gun and gone looking for trouble.” 

She shrugs. “I tried that, I told you. Didn’t work.” She takes another swallow of coffee. “Are you trying to tell me you’re the bad guy in this situation?” 

Griffin copies her shrug. “It’s complicated.” 

“So you said.” Zan purses her lips. “ _Talk_ , Griffin, or coffee or not I’m going home to bed. It’s getting late.” 

He glances around the cafe, but nobody’s paying attention to anything but their food. So he tells her; not all of it, but a lot, the fact that Jumpers exist and Paladins exist to kill them, and how he’s spent his life dodging and fighting and trying to live free. It feels weird, trying to explain the whole thing to someone who isn’t a Jumper, and he can’t tell what she’s thinking because she keeps her face still and just drinks her coffee. 

When he’s finished, she’s quiet for a bit, playing with her cup, and Griffin rips up yet another serviette and tries not to twitch. He doesn’t know why he even _cares,_ maybe it’s just being able to talk to someone now that David is off trying to be _normal_ , but somehow it matters even though he tells himself it doesn’t. 

“Good story,” she says at last. “Really good. I’m impressed.” 

That stings, even though he expected it. Zan’s lips crimp. “Are you trying to see how much I’ll swallow?” 

He doesn’t know what makes him look, because he’s still trying to deal with the petty anger and the faint hurt he doesn’t want to admit. Maybe it’s some instinct, some extra sense warning him, but when he glances to one side and sees the man in the shadows behind the cafe counter, raising a baton to aim, the old adrenaline rush fills him and he bares his teeth at Zan. “Duck!” 

Of course she doesn’t, she just gapes at him, but he’s already under the table as the wire shoots through the space he’s just vacated. He grabs her ankle and yanks, and after a beat Zan slithers down off the seat and practically into his arms. Griffin can hear the wire crackling, and people are starting to shout, and he knows they have maybe two, three seconds tops, so he grabs her into a hug, and jumps. 

He knows the landing’s going to be rough. So he aims for home ground, because water landings are harder than most people think. And a breath later they’re skidding across sand, still on their sides, and the cold hits them like a punch to the back of the head. 

Griffin knows to hold his breath, but Zan doesn’t, so she’s coughing and choking on the cloud of dust. He lets her go really quick as soon as they slide to a stop, and sits up, taking a quick look around just in case one of those bastards has a follow device. 

But there’s no vibration or shimmer so he thinks they’re probably good. The moon is icing the desert, it’s all deep blue and silver, and he’s grateful it’s enough to see by. 

Zan’s still coughing, but she manages to sit up too, rummaging in her bag and coming out with a bottle of water. She rinses her mouth and eyes and squints at Griffin. “Where are my glasses?” 

Her voice is scratchy. Griffin blinks, because that isn’t what he’s expecting, and looks around. There’s a gleam of light back along the furrow they’d left in the sand, so he goes to get them. As far as he can tell, they’re not damaged; when he hands them to Zan she cleans them carefully with the bottom of her shirt before putting them back on and heaving a deep sigh. 

“Okay, I believe you.” 

The simple statement--it’s enough somehow to make him burst out with a laugh, and he’s not sure why, except it’s just _funny_. No hysterics, no disbelief, she isn’t even _mad_. 

Zan just sits there, waiting until he stops, and then she gestures at the desert. “Where are we?” 

“Chile.” That’s all he’s willing to tell her, given what happened to his _previous_ lair, but she nods. “Come on. There’s a place--we c’n get out of the cold.” He’s already shivering a little. 

Zan nods again, then reaches up, and without thinking about it Griffin takes her hand and pulls her to her feet. The second he does it he knows it’s weird, but by then she’s standing and it’s easier just to lead her over the dune to his lair. 

“I always wanted to see South America,” she says drily as they slither down the far slope. “But this isn’t quite what I had in mind.” 

“Yeah, well, welcome to Jumper-world.” Except not really, because she’s _not_ one, and Griffin grimaces because he’s going to have to explain that too, that rescuing him has put her on Roland’s shit-list and she’s never going to be able to go home again. 

It’s not going to go well. It never does. 

His lair looks like it always does, messy and comfortable, with sand in the corners and his drawings on the walls. Zan wanders through it, raising her brows at his sketches of Paladins and then making approving noises as she looks at Griffin’s Xbox titles. “This is your place?” 

“Yeah.” Griffin skins off his jacket and tosses it on a chair. “A safe house, like.” 

“Impressive.” Zan runs a hand through her hair, shaking out sand. “It’s kind of like an Unplottable.” 

Griffin snickers again. “Nerd.” 

“Told you that already.” She grins and pulls off her bag and cardigan, flapping the latter to get rid of more sand. “So what now?” 

Griffin shrugs, already feeling uncomfortable. He should have taken her somewhere else, he thinks, someplace less personal, but coming here was instinct. “Now I tell you that your bleedin’ heart just ruined your life.” 

Zan stops, her grin fading, and stares at him. “Sorry, what?” 

Griffin reaches for anger, because it’s easier than trying to apologise. “You think you can just go back home like nothing happened? The Paladins’ll be coming for you. They’re probably at your place already. Saving me makes you a target, don’t you _get_ it?” 

The shock on her face just makes him angrier. “Congratulations, you get all the shite of being a Jumper with none of the bennies. You just lost your home, your family, an’ your job. If you go back, they’ll take you. If you escape, they’ll go after your parents, your brother, your sister, your boyfriend or girlfriend. _They won’t stop._ ” 

Zan’s shaking her head, her eyes wide. “But I’m not a Jumper.” 

“Doesn’t matter. You helped me, and now Roland will never believe you aren’t part of it all. He’ll peel your skin for answers whether you’ve got them or not.” 

She looks so _stunned_ , standing there with her bag dangling from one hand and her cardigan from the other, that Griffin has to turn away. He kicks viciously at a pile of dirty clothes and wishes for an instant that Zan had hung up on Security and never come looking for him at all. 

She’s silent behind him. Griffin storms across the lair and yanks Roland’s knife from his jacket, slamming it onto a shelf and then changing his mind and scooping it back up. With the flicker of a thought he’s on a cliff in Albania, overlooking the dark glitter of the moon reflecting off the sea. 

He draws his arm back to pitch the knife into the water far below, and then hesitates. There would be a whole _lot_ of fucking _justice_ in gutting Roland with his own blade; the dozens of Jumpers he’s murdered getting their revenge through Griffin’s hand. 

But. 

Griffin sits down on the edge, letting his feet dangle over the gulf of air. The knife is warm in his hand, and he turns it back and forth, letting a moonbeam play with the metal. 

The truth is, by now he’s a realist. Griffin wants Roland and all the Paladins dead, wants it with all of his soul, but he’s come close enough to death himself by now that he knows the odds aren’t in his favour. Hell, the day he’s just had proves that. It’s much more likely that Roland or one of the others will get him in the end. And then Roland will take his knife back, and smirk like the arsehole he is. 

Griffin closes his eyes, lets out a long, long breath, and opens his fingers. 

The knife slips free and tumbles away. It’s too far down for him to hear a splash. 


End file.
